


Freudian Slip

by Dinadinu



Series: The Peculiar Mind of Henrik von Schneeplestein [1]
Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Blood and Gore, Body Horror, Hallucinations, Mutilation, Nightmares, tbh i have no idea what im doing lmao
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-03
Updated: 2019-02-03
Packaged: 2019-10-21 12:43:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17643065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dinadinu/pseuds/Dinadinu
Summary: It’s official.You’re finally losing your mind, Schneeplestein





	Freudian Slip

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve never actually, like, written graphic gore and violence for the hell of it. And this is meant to be some sort of practice drabble regarding that. So, apologies if it’s kinda bad in that regard :’)
> 
> I do plan on making ‘sequels’ to this (which is what the second half of this is building up to). I’m not exactly sure where I’ll be taking this tho lol

The clock on his table reads 2:37 AM. Henrik rubs his eyes, struggling to stay awake. He dreads the moment sleep comes for him as he’s been having recurring nightmares as of late.

The setting of the dream would sometimes change, but the overall dream stays the same. He would either be in the middle of a grassy field, a forest, the ocean on a rocking boat, or, rarely, in his own house. He would always see a figure made of static white noise. The static was set in a pattern that he had already memorized by now.

“Who are you? Why are you here? What do you want?” Henrik would sometimes ask it. The being never talked, whether or not he asked it is insignificant.

It would then suddenly slice at his neck, seemingly with its bare hands. His carotid arteries would always burst from that slice, making blood gush freely from it. His hands would fly to his throat, trying to stop the blood. But all that did was make the blood rush inwards, down his also sliced trachea. As he chokes on his own blood, the figure would then pierce his abdomen right through, snapping his spinal cord as well. It would slice up as it pulls away, tearing through his stomach and his chest cavity. Henrik would fall and, having no control over his legs anymore, stay fallen.

The static figure would then crawl over him and begin to repetitively, and almost methodically, bash his head in with its fists. His nose would always be the first to break. The cartilage of his nose snaps as his nasal bone cracks. His jaw and cheeks are next in line. The force of the fists would not only shatter his jaw and cheek bones, but it would also knock his teeth out. The teeth would fall down his throat, choking him even further. The figure would then punch his eyes with force as if it is punching concrete. His right eye would burst from the pressure of its fists, while his other eye is left internally haemorrhaging and bruising nastily.

The figure would then grip his skull in its hands and begin smashing it onto the floor. As it repeatedly rams his head, it’s fingers that grip his skull presses down tighter and tighter. When his skull cracks, the sickening sound it makes would reverberate to his still functioning ears. It would peel off his scalp and the shattered pieces of his skull as if it’s peeling a hard-boiled egg. After enough pieces of his skull have been peeled away, his braid would loll out of its place, exposing it to the open air.

Every night is the same, almost word for word. He would never cry out for help or try to fight back. For whatever reason, he’d just stand still and accept what’s being done to him. And he would never die at the end of all that. He’d just be laying on the ground, choking and writhing in pain until he finally wakes up.

Although, he remembers from the last time he slept, that being when he passed out on the way back from Munich several days ago. He was laying on the ground in a puddle of his own blood. The blades of grass that surrounded him has somehow turned red as well. With his one relatively good eye, he saw the static figure looming over him, drenched in his blood.

“Why,” he asked it. “If you want me to suffer so badly, why won’t you just let me die?”

To his surprise, the figure then spoke to him for the first time. “You deserve far worse things than death,” it said. Its voice low, distorted, and broken. “And even this is barely scratching the surface.”

 

 

Snapping from his reverie, Henrik stands up from his chair and stretches, the joints of his spine audibly popping. He hears laughter coming from behind him. It sounds psychotic and unhinged, but it’s distorted and barely audible. Henrik quickly turns to see what made such a noise, but finds nothing. There’s no one but him in the study, yet the laughter plays on.

From his window opposite the door, he sees snow falling gently from the sky. He walks over to his window and finds that a good amount of snow had settled on the ground. It isn’t too thick, but it certainly wouldn’t melt in the morning either.

He sets his hand on the windowsill, and then he feels something similar to a hand being placed above his own. When he shoots a glance towards where his hand rests, he sees a sickly green disembodied hand clutching his own. The hand is severed just above the wrist, dark red blood drips from the unnaturally clean cut. It grips his hand harder and harder, its nails digging into his palm. When Henrik feels it breaching his skin, he pulls his hand back frantically and stumbles backwards. Wringing his hand together, he finds small cuts in the shape of nails on his palm, bleeding ever so slightly.

His head turns to the computer screen on his desk. It has the draft of his research paper open, untouched beyond the thesis statement. _Further Studies on the Neuroscience of Psychosis_ , the title of his paper reads.

“How fitting,” he says derisively in the empty room.

Henrik leaves the study to grab a glass of water. As he fills his glass with tap water, he watches the snow continue to fall outside his kitchen window. The way it falls is graceful, gentle, hypnotical. He places his glass in the sink and decides to take a walk outside, try to clear his mind a bit. He changes to warmer clothing, puts on his coat, and slips on his boots. He steps out to the porch and locks the door behind him.

To his dismay, that distorted laughter follows him as the snow crunches beneath his feet.

“Can you please shut up?” he shouts with annoyance into the winter wind.

Whatever was laughing, it had listened to him. The laughter receded into a giggle, broken and distant. He stops in his tracks and turns around. He finds another set of footprints on the snowy pavement trailing right beside his own. _‘It’s just a trick of the light,’_ he thinks. Yet when he crouches down to examine them, the snow in concave as if it had really been pressed down by something.

“Leave me alone,” he says. However, he has no clue as to who, or what, he’s speaking to.

He feels a pressure on his left arm and the same disembodied hands that he had seen in his study, now in a pair, clinging onto him. The blood that flow from their cuts drips down to the snow, staining it red.

“It’s official,” Henrik mutters under his breath.“You’re finally losing your mind, Schneeplestein.”

The hands cling to him even tighter and he hears the giggles become louder, sounding amused. “If you really are losing your mind,” it spoke with the same broken voice of the static figure he sees in his dreams. “At least you’re losing it to me.”

Henrik raises his right hand, intending to brush off the hands that cling to him. But for some reason, he decides not to and puts his hand back down. With a sigh, he turns around and resumes his walk. And the disembodied hands, the broken laughter, and the invisible feet continue to follow him relentlessly.


End file.
